


Under the Old Oak Tree

by altairattorney



Category: Astérix le Gaulois | Asterix the Gaul
Genre: Future Fic, Gen, I got pissed at the canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 09:58:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4701857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/altairattorney/pseuds/altairattorney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one alive in the village remembers when the tradition began. But they all defend it without hesitation, for the old oak tree is the place where all the stories are told.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under the Old Oak Tree

“Listen up, everyone,” Asterix begins. “It all started with a man called Julius Caesar.”

*

There is an old oak tree at the edge of the forest. According to the elders, it has always been there.

The children have no memory of this, but everyone else does. Over the decades, the woods had to retire and grow back incessantly. The trees gave way to new Roman settlements, in the smell of smoke and burnt ground; they waited for them to escape, patiently, and every time covered the earth in seeds again. Those were confusing years for everyone.

But the old oak tree is a sacred spot. Among deforestation, magical regrowth and whatnot, it is one of the few trees the Gauls never ceased defending. For every failed attempt, the Romans watched one of their camps be destroyed – the fresh garrisons all learnt the lesson sooner or later, and none ever bothered with more than two attempts.

No one alive in the village remembers when the tradition began. But they all defend it without hesitation, for the old oak tree is the place where all the stories are told.

That everyone who has a tale to tell ends up there, and children and youngsters gather around to listen, is something as certain as the gods or the seasons. It is one of the timeless truths of their community, and they come to know it as naturally as they learn to breathe.

At the first signs of spring, when the land awakens under the touch of a reinvigorating sun, little listeners surround the old oak tree like mushrooms after the rain.

They have been listening to the same adventures for years. With two narrators like them, they can never grow bored.

*

“Uncle Obelix, why don’t you punch the Romans anymore?”

Asterix does not like it when they ask that question. Tales of raging fists and growing piles of helmets die down immediately, as his friend’s small eyes fill up with a mixture of tears and melancholy. He has to do his best not to scold them.

But he is also the only one who knows him well, and children are so carefree they act careless sometimes. No wonder he never wanted to be a father.

“That was when we had to fight the Romans all the time,” he explains. “A lot of things changed since then. They leave us alone if we do the same.”

“They got scared,” Obelix grumbles. The thought is no longer so unpleasant to his aging body, but it never ceases to offend him. “The fresh ones are all weaklings. It is like running after baby boars. No fun.”

At least in front of the children, Asterix tries to brush it off. The two of them will discuss it later.

“We still fight sometimes, but it is rare. The new chief of the Romans is not that angry with us now.”

“‘Gustus is bad,” the chief’s little girl squeaks. She is the liveliest of the group, and the only one who remembers Augustus’ name. Her father is insulting him constantly. “My daddy is stronger than 'Gustus!”

“He is, or we would not live as peacefully as we do, kids. Abraracourcix was stronger, too, when he was chief.”

“Tell us again, uncle Asterix!” a chorus of tiny voices calls out to him. “Tell us of when he fell off the shield all the time!”

“Like your daddy!”

“My daddy does _not_ do that!”

Looking at them brings back memories. Amused as he is by the sight, Asterix hesitates. But Obelix is already smiling again – he is good to go.

He relaxes against the solid bark, and picks a new flower.

“Those were good times…”

*

For two hours after lunch, while the shadow of the trunk shifts to the east, the old oak tree is their home. It greets the sight of two warriors who still live in the present, yet cherish every moment of their past.

With time forever marching on, they grow to be more important each day. Nobody has the greatest adventures so vividly painted in their memory – nobody but the ones who made them be.

Many are the tellers who sit by the old oak tree. But when the two of them talk, the village is silent, and not a single child is seen playing in the streets.  
  
*

“Uncle Asterix, who is our bard now?”

“Nobody is our bard,” Obelix cackles.

“Assurancetourix is still our bard,” Asterix corrects him, not without a generous jab which gets lost in his belly anyway. “He just… cannot sing very well anymore.”

 _He still goes on about the matchless talent of his youth, though,_ he silently adds to himself. _Too bad his gruff voice could not stop that._  
  
“But a bard sings!” The disappointed tone inevitably belongs to one of Cetautomatix’s grandchildren. Obelix in particular loves the irony of it all. “I wanna hear him sing!”

The young ones do not really get why both start laughing to tears, but they do it a lot. It is nothing new. They know they will stop, sooner or later, and Asterix will say something with that strange gleam in his eyes.

“You have no idea how lucky you are, little rascals.”

*

The afternoons of the old oak tree often go on well into the evening. It is not rare for them to end up in bonfires and banquets, with the generous summer sky showering stars on their heads. To the Gauls, remembering is joy, and joy naturally translates to a feast.

In those long nights, there are two warriors and all their friends. They throw their voices into the mix, although their old age made many hard of hearing. If nothing else, the smell of the rancid fish they use to beat each other up was left unchanged.

In between a tale and a quick brawl, they laugh so heartily that the whole sky is shaken. It has not fallen yet, which is a good sign.

Still, there are times when their memories are full of sadness and longing. When it happens, everyone stays still. For long moments, they hear nothing but the dialogue of fire and wind.

*

“And then, the worst day of my life became the best! Panoramix let me taste the magic potion. And my little Idefix came to save us. Did I tell you that? Yes? My little Idefix could run as fast as the wind. He had great teeth, too.”

Obelix’s voice is dying down to a murmur. Asterix knows too well what is going to happen, and it is never good, no matter how much time has passed.   
  
He hugs his friend’s gigantic arm in silence. Even he, after all he has said and done in life, could never find the words for this.

“He… he collected the fabric… he tore off the Roman uniforms,” he babbles, and he sounds more and more like he is crying. “Right… beside my helmets. I… I really miss my Idefix.”

It takes Asterix a while to find a way to go on. But the children look devastated, and he cannot just do nothing about it.

“Idefix was our dearest friend, kids. And Panoramix was the most amazing druid in the world. It is too bad you cannot meet them,” he says, in a mellow voice. “But this is why it is so important, for us, to come together around the old oak tree. If you listen to our memories of them, then it will almost be as if they were sitting among us, right here.”

Beside them, the moonlit grass is empty – but the shadows of the forest never speak out their secrets. Asterix studies the trees from a distance.

Maybe they really are, he thinks, feeling a bizarre solace. That would make him so happy.

*

Winters trap the whole village inside. Its dwellers live on anyway, through the hardships of the season. But at night, when the deeds of the day are over, the chief’s home opens up to everyone.

The old oak tree is left alone, with the shivering forest as its only friend. The voices and their audience are moved to the side of the fireplace, with warm milk and beer keeping them a company they are forever grateful for.

The cold weather may rage outside, but merriment is never a stranger among the Gauls. Where it comes from, be it brawls or laughs, they don’t care much.

*

“…but I will stop here, because Mister Asterix does not like it when I say he lost his patience _all the time!_ ”

“Mister Obelix doesn’t even know what Mister Asterix has to say!”

“Oh yeah, because Mister Asterix is the one who knows it all! Mister Asterix always has the answer, never mind he doesn’t even know how to go fishing!”

“Are you _seriously_ still upset about that? About Ordralfabetix’s smelly fish?”

“Of course I-! I… well…”

They burst out laughing after a long silence, and the other villagers, who were already preparing their fists, join them quickly.

*

In the burnt ends of those nights, two warriors are left alone to sit by their own fireplace. Whose house they are in stopped making a difference even before they were born. They lean against each other sleepily, wishing to keep the other company a little longer – but they are serene, and quiet, and growing old. They go to bed earlier than they used to.

A silent mantle of snow is covering the grass. It is soft and undisturbed, like the blankets which keep them warm. The old oak tree watches over it, like it watches over them and their future.

The old oak tree watches over everything that already happened, and prepares to listen to what is yet to come. As long as voices pass on the tale, through the generations, it will stay where it is.

The old oak tree is the keeper of the memory, and its responsibility is timeless, all over the world.

*

“Asterix?”

“Yes?”

“I am sleepy.”

“Let’s go to bed, then, handsome youth. It’s about time.”

But Obelix’s gigantic frame does not move yet. Asterix instinctively knows he still has something to add.

“Asterix?”

“Yes?”

“I wonder, sometimes… under the old oak tree. I… had no idea what else to expect, you know?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not sure,” Obelix answers, and his arm trembles slightly around Asterix’s shoulders. “Maybe it was… when we were younger, I never thought about what growing old would feel like. There was just… a day, and the day after that, and after that, all in a row. They ended so easily. The advantage of youth, I suppose.”

“You are very wise, my friend,” Asterix says, unable to repress a long sigh.

“We have lots of good memories,” Obelix continues. “We make good ones. But we are still on our own, without a new family… and sometimes I wonder if you are fine with that. Or if you expected something different. I just… cannot tell how else it may have worked out.”

They both feel warm and tranquil, in the light of the dying embers. There is a brief pause. As seriously as he takes his friend’s feelings, Asterix knows that his response is going to be weirdly obvious, no matter how he puts it.

“Sometimes you still take me by surprise, silly. I don’t know how you do it. How could you even imagine I would wish for something else? I always chose for myself, didn’t I?”

“I guess so,” Obelix says, tracing irregular patterns on the carpet with his left hand.

“And yet, I never made a choice that did not involve you first,” Asterix observes, smiling. “Or our little Idefix, or our friends. I never thought of myself as someone isolated from the rest of you. And if I had chosen a future I did not want, I would not be here right now.”

Without a warning, Obelix’s arms lift him from the ground, squeezing him tightly. It has happened too many times to count, but Asterix hasn’t grown tired of it yet. He knows he can’t.

“I feel the same. I couldn’t have foreseen it,” Obelix tells him, in a matter-of-fact tone. “But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Me neither, my kind Obelix. Me neither.”

*

With the return of warmth and sunny days, the old oak tree embraces new listeners every year.

Two warriors remember their adventures, so they can entrust them to younger hands. What once was a game, a chain of images and words of years past, becomes a mission.

The old oak tree protects them, too. It has protected many people, since the dawn of a culture lost in time. Its shade is there to embrace their voices, and shield their heads from whatever may fall on them.

The two warriors trust the old oak tree. It has the eternal power of words.

They lay to rest, and let their memories speak for them.

**Author's Note:**

> I expected my first Asterix fic to be the last, but the idea arrived, so why not?
> 
> When Albert Uderzo decided to break the continuity of the Asterix timeline and give us a 50-years-later version of the village, I did not expect him to fail so hard and in so many ways. It was not a happy experience, believe me.  
> While I don't really see any point in doing it myself, for reasons anyone who knows me and my opinions about the Asterix canon should be aware of, discussion on the subject made me choose to go for it.
> 
> I wanted to write the version of the future I expect my darling Gauls to have – with no immortality, no eternal aging, no nagging wives and screaming little pests. Just the way it always was, and I think is supposed to be.  
> Very special thanks to ag47silver for the headcanons, the inputs and the lovely talks in general.  
> Do forgive me for my horrible use of their names, it's force of habit.
> 
> EDIT:The spiritual parent of this one-shot is a picture every Asterix fan must come across sooner or later, which comes from the side album that tells how Obelix fell in the cauldron. Inspired by it, the lovely ag47silver drew me [this companion picture to the story](http://altairattorney.tumblr.com/post/128188661263/ag47silver-for-the-old-oak-tree-is-the), and I can't thank her enough!


End file.
